Page 211 of End Game

That alone is strange.

I'm usually the one standing over someone.

Usually the one watching for reactions.

Usually the one deciding when somebody gets what they want.

Now I'm on Ronan's bed with my hands lightly restrained in front of me while he sits beside my hip and looks at me like my reactions are the only thing in the room worth studying.

It's disorienting.

It's also incredibly fucking hot.

His palm settles against my chest. “Breathe.”

“I am.”

“Slower.”

I almost make a smart-ass comment.

Then his thumb strokes once over my sternum.

I breathe slower.

“Good.”

The word drops through me.

Ronan kisses my throat.

Then my collarbone.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing designed to overwhelm.

Maybe that's why it starts to.

His hand moves down my stomach while his mouth follows a different path, and I keep waiting for the moment where I want to take control back.

It doesn't come.

Instead, every instruction makes something inside me settle.

“Lift your hips.”

I do.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“Breathe.”

I breathe.

At some point my jeans are gone.